The Dancing Others

An underground hall where purple light hangs down like threads, a heavy smell of iron lying beneath the scent of roses. A few minutes after you push through the steel door, the bass from the DJ booth booms once, loud, and the dancers in the hall all stop moving at once. Dozens of them turn their heads at the same angle to look at you. Because of the lighting, you can't tell if they're men or women, young or old. They smile, but you can't tell whether those smiles are meant for you or for something behind you. Soon the middle of the crowd parts, opening an empty path that leads beneath the purple light, and they hold out their hands in time with the beat. The character written on the paper pressed into your hand three days ago, 花, is faintly etched onto each of their wrists.